Stranger
by darthsydious
Summary: Fic based on song from Big Fish the Musical. Sherlock contemplates his future, soon to be utterly changed forever by the news of Molly's pregnancy. He realizes that as a father-to-be, his relationship with his father was not what it should be. Tie-in to "Just Like Da"


_Based once again on a song from Big Fish the Musical. Music and Lyrics by Andrew Lippa. Lyrics in italics._

* * *

_Stranger _

_I'm feeling stranger than _

_I've ever felt before_

_And so much more_

_Different_

_Like something old has joined_

_With something new_

_But still feels true_

The belstaff billowed behind him as he tramped through the London streets, his mind swimming with new information. He'd kissed his wife, declaring himself in need of a walk, promising her that absolutely nothing was wrong. He'd waited for her to see he truly meant it, and he did, somewhat. There was nothing wrong with her being pregnant. Indeed she'd wanted children for so long, and he supposed that while the idea of being a father was not one he entertained, he was always pleased when Molly was happy. But now it was no longer a possibility. It was fact. Sherlock Holmes would be a father in a matter of nine months and it brought to the fore all sorts of worries and concerns he had long pushed aside. He worried it would have his addictions, he worried it would be born too early, or what if it was a difficult birth and Molly died? What if they both died? He ran the statistics in his head, and found his information lacking. He decided to research that as soon as he got to Baker Street. He turned his collar up against the cold November wind, heading for Regents Park.

_I'm passing through a rite_

_That every parent does_

_I'm walking on some shared familiar ground_

_Yet every step I take is a step that was_

_And I've found_

_I like the sound of_

_Stranger_

_A child I've yet to meet _

_Becomes my everything_

_My song to sing_

There were hundreds of variables to this turn of events, all of them had to be contemplated, thoroughly looked over. Yet he found himself pondering each scenario with the vigor he had while deeply entrenched in a case. A child to teach and help grow into their own person, to perhaps find interest in the things Sherlock liked. He thought suddenly of his own father. Of how different they were. Indeed Sherlock had more in common with Mycroft than his parents; he often wondered how two average human beings could produce two children so indescribably different than their parents. Sherlock thought of his youth, Sigurd Holmes trying to keep him entertained, to bond with him, so to speak. Sherlock could see no point in trying to find common ground with his father, there was nothing, save the DNA they shared.

Sherlock Holmes, soon-to-be father, had nothing in common with his own father.

And suddenly there it was. Something he had in common with his father: Sherlock Holmes would be a father. Sigurd had once been exactly in this position, that of being an expectant father. All the fears, the trepidations and possibilities spread before him and not quite knowing what to do or feel about it.

_Father_

_And suddenly the weight of it is real_

_What do I feel?_

_I feel connected _

_In a way I've never known_

_A line from dad to me to new-born son_

A panicked thought struck Sherlock: what if _he_ had nothing in common with _his_ son? It was a helpless thought that he could do nothing to neither stop, nor erase from his mind palace.

"_What if I am exactly like my father and have nothing in common with my son?"_ What would he do? A child could not be brushed aside, certainly not one of his own. The thought repelled him, and he found himself searching for solutions. Who could he turn to for answers to this predicament? John? Surely not. John got on with his children. He was a natural. "Stupid," he muttered, rolling his eyes. Of course he would have to ask his father.

_So from today I'll never make a choice alone_

_One for all, _

_All for one_

_And when he's born _

_I'll teach him how to use his common sense_

_He'll listen and he'll learn and he'll excel_

_I'll tell my son_

_That life is lived in clear and present tense_

_Not only in the stories we can tell_

But it would be different, Sherlock's relationship with his son. His father's penchant for literature, of Shakespeare and wild tales seemed to encompass most of Sherlock's childhood. He had no wish for fancies. They were amusing for a little while, but his father's determination that they were true frustrated Sherlock. Ridiculous stories about giants and witches and defeating dragons could not be true. He _did_ try, listening to his father tell tale after tale, each time details changed, or they were inconsequential to the bigger picture and fell by the wayside until Sherlock grew frustrated and suspicious that really, everything his father said was just ridiculous. His mother tried to soothe him,

"He's a man of the theatre," she would tell him. "Let him tell his stories, why get upset at him for such a small thing?"

"They aren't real!" Sherlock would insist. His mother would ruffle his hair, smiling. Sherlock wished he could understand his father the way his mother did. She had patience beyond a saint when it came to Sigurd Holmes, allowing herself to be entertained by wild tales, gently reminding her husband not to 'cast such a shadow with such a small fish'.

_My father told me stories_

_I could never comprehend_

_In every tale he'd claim to be the hero_

_I've tried to understand him_

_But I wonder if I can_

_Because after almost thirty years_

_I still don't know the man_

_I wish I knew the man_

_But he's a stranger_

_My father is a stranger I know very well_

_A puzzling shell_

Sherlock stopped on the pathway, struck by a sudden thought. All the stories, the family trips and dinners, Sherlock did not truly know his father. He knew Sigurd's habits; his annoying tendencies that made Sherlock grind his teeth. He knew all his bad, grating qualities and what annoyed him the most, but he did not truly know who his father was. Sherlock did not want that for his own son. He didn't want his and Molly's son forever looking at him with a questioning scowl, wondering why his father had made up his profession. He didn't want their son to see him looking at Sigurd with annoyance and contempt, and then in turn looking to Sherlock in the same way. Sherlock almost laughed then. He was panicking over the opinion of someone who was not even in his life yet. But it _mattered_. Sherlock didn't know why he was so desperate for the love of his unborn child, but he knew he did not want the distance between himself and his own father to grow anymore than it had.

_Hopeful_

_What's on its way may help us both to grow_

_But I don't know_

_I don't know when I'll understand_

_What made him wild_

_I don't know why he has the urge to fly_

_I want to face him like a man and not a child!_

He fished through his pockets, rather than texting, he tapped out the number, waiting patiently for Molly to pick up.

"There you are!" relief in her voice. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I told you, I just needed some air, I wanted to sort some things out, organize a new room, things have to be deleted…" he excused the lie, anyway it wasn't quite a lie, he would have to move things around his mind-palace to make room for the baby.

"Alright," he could tell she was smiling.

"I was thinking we ought to have father and mother up for a visit." There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. "Are you there?"

"Yes, I am, I'm just wondering what you're up to,"

"Nothing," he replied. "But the news of our having a baby should be broken to them in person, I think, rather than by telephone."

"If you're sure, I think it's a very good idea, and I haven't seen your mum and dad for ages! I'll run to the store then, pick up something nice for Sunday roast," Molly agreed. "What's your father like to eat?"

"Hobbit food," he answered automatically.  
"What?" she laughed, somewhat puzzled.

"Look it up," he said with a smirk.

"Are you sure about having them over? We could just as easily go out to eat. I know you and your dad don't get on very well, having them to dinner would mean small-talk, and your father going through your library," she said after a moment. Sherlock took a breath.

"Yes, I know, I've gone over all that. It's alright, Molly."

"If you're sure," she conceded. "How about I order something for us tonight, what do you want?"

"Anything you like," he answered.

"I'll call it in then when I get home."

"Is your shift over yet?"

"I'm just clocking out now," he could hear her shutting her locker door, keys jingling. "I'll see you at home in about thirty minutes."

"I'll race you," he said with a smile and she laughed.

"You're on, be safe, I'll see you at the front door, I love you."

"I love you."

"Go!" she hung up the phone and he knew she'd broken into a sprint. Shoving his phone into his pocket, he made a mad dash for the park gates, letting out a shrill whistle. Two cabs screeched to a halt, he leapt into the nearest one, laughing to himself.

He thought about his suggestion to Molly, knowing she'd be calling his mother that evening or the next morning with an invitation to Sunday supper. There was no going back now. Sherlock found he didn't quite resist the thought as much as he used to, not if it meant having a better relationship with his own son. Repairing the past to create a better future would be difficult to say the least, but knowing it would be to prevent the past from repeating itself, Sherlock knew it would be worth it.

_So I'll try, I'll really try_

_And in time, my boy is sure to see_

_Brighter days for Dad and me_

_We can do things better than before_

_So that strangers we will be no more!_


End file.
